


Purify Me In Hyssop

by siento



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination, BAMF Kurapika, Because Senritsu can HEAR, Biblical Reinterpretation, Canary and Kurapika are BROS, Crossdressing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Genei Ryodan Are Theives, Gon and Killua Are Feral Children, Gon is of noble blood, He has no concept of self care, Hisoka is a prick, I love him okay?, I mean, Idiots in Love, Illumi is the CEO of bitch i gotchu, Im here and Im queer for this crackhead mlm wlw energy, Killua is a prince, Kurapika Has Good Friends, Kurapika Needs a Hug, Kurapika and Chrollo Team Up, Kurapika is hunting the Eyes, Kurapika is too technically, Kurta Clan's Scarlet Eyes (Hunter X Hunter), Leorio Is A Plague Doctor, M/M, Magic, Minor Neon/Shizuku, Nen Is Magic, Not revenge, Now with Artwork, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Power Bottom Kurapika, Rating May Change, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sassy Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter), Semi-Public Sex, Service Top Chrollo, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, The Zoldycks Are Magical Assassins, Torture, Witch Kurapika, Witchcraft, as he should be, but magical, i'm trash, maybe a little revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siento/pseuds/siento
Summary: "House Kuruta was massacred six years ago, their sacred Scarlet Eyes ripped from their sockets. One hundred and twenty-eight bodies drowned the once vibrant and colorful grounds of their village in blood, leaving ghastly ruins in their wake. There were no confirmed survivors."Having dedicated the six years after his House's death to reclaiming the Scarlet Eyes and laying them to rest, Kurapika must combat his lust for revenge and survivor's guilt in order to retrieve two more pairs of Eyes while accompanying the man who helped pluck them out of his brethren.
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Comments: 23
Kudos: 115





	1. The Blood of the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> Okay the pandemic has been a bitch and a half to deal with and honestly life in quarantine sucks buttttttt I was able to binge Hunter X Hunter and LET ME TELL YOU. I am a WHORE for Kurapika and Chrollo. I didn't even WANT to start shipping them, but then Kurapika had to go out and punch tf outta Chrollo in the car and my stupid ass said, "wait a damn MINUTE." It felt like when I started shipping Eren and Levi all over again deadass.
> 
> This is my first fanfic so please be gentle with me. I have a sensitive soul (lmao not I don't.) I'm unsure as to how often I'll update, but I'll try to at least get a chapter in a week. I'm taking a summer course so my priorities are college first, fanfic second. I'm not sure when I'm going back to work either, but we'll see what happens. Also, I am my own beta, so there may be typos and improper grammar. I'll do my best to make sure it's not a reoccurring thing.
> 
> My intention is to have this be at least 10 chapters long, if it's longer, that's a shocker.
> 
> For the universe I chose for this, it's not exactly medieval, nor is it a modern setting. Kings, queens, royalty and nobility exist and you will see that some interact with the Black Market, just like hxh. Some modern technology exists, such as running water and electricity, but devices like phones and tablets don't. There are things like trains though, and the language is more modern than that of medieval or typical fantasy fiction, so it's fairly industrialized. I mention in the first chapter something called a "communication channel." That's just a fancy thing for witches that I made up that lets them talk to other people through their magic. It's pretty basic and all witches can do it as long as they have a grasp of their magic. It's either I do that or I install floo networks, but this ain't a harry potter fic so no.
> 
> Also, I am not a witch. I don't practice witchcraft. I don't do voodoo or hoodoo (I'll be cursed if I do it. My Caribbean grandmother warned me such.) The magic that I come up with in this is purely fantasy and acts more like how it does in anime than in real life. The spells, jinxes and hexes used are all made up by your's truly, so I hope I don't offend anyone with the way magic behaves in this fic. To make it easier to process, Nen is magic; the Nen abilities presented in hxh are used as magic in this. Magic is divided into different types, just like Nen, with the same names for each type. If I mention a specific kind of magic, such as Necromancy, I'll put it under a specific type. For instance, I said that Necromancy is a Manipulation. Kurapika is a Conjurer, so just like you'd except, he Conjurer's his Chains and his Eyes give him Specialist abilities. Chrollo steals magic. Emitters in this don't have Nen Beasts, but they have Familiars. Shit like that.
> 
> I have no clue if I'm ranting at this point lol. Anyway, thank you so much for reading this and I hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm STRUGGLING with adding images to the fic, but I made original art of early morning Kurapika's hair that you should be able to view [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CC9m7F_pRJ2/)

Tucked away in rich green, abundant with towering trees and coiling plants, House Kuruta prospered undisturbed. Reclusive and maybe even a bit unfriendly to outsiders aside from those in the neighboring village a two day’s trip away, one hundred and twenty-eight Kurutas thrived off the land peacefully. Their homeland, the Lukso Province, was infamous for the swirling patterns engraved in the trees; imprinted with old and formidable protection spells, the trees would confuse any unwelcome guests attempting to seek passage. For this reason, no one dared enter the forest out of the fear that they would be lost to the looming verdure inside.

The Kuruta migrated into Lukso some three hundred years earlier and made it their home. Kuruta magic depends on life, which the forest is overflowing with, and can be shown in their famous Scarlet Eyes. Triggered by excitement, the Kuruta’s eyes would transform to a deep, shocking red hue. Those who have looked into their eyes recounted seeing their own lives flash in before them. It was an awesome and seductive phenomenon; humans have long lost the ability to display raw feats of magical energy within their own bodies. The world’s initial enchantment to the eyes is what caused the Kuruta to take refuge in the jaws of the woods and, eventually, never leave.

Decades of environmental dependence allowed the Kuruta to cultivate and respect the forest. Their home is where their magic is closest to them. Cherishing the natural resources from the wood, House Kuruta comfortably abandoned their nomadic nature for an agricultural lifestyle. Their food, clothing and shelter could all be traced back to the trees, the flowers and the creatures lurking the woods. A polytheistic people, the spirits worshiped by the Kuruta became associated with the forest itself. The House became vegetarian, discovering that whatever sustenance partaken in was yet another blessing from the forest. Their love for Lukso birthed a warm, lush magical energy that allowed them to live quietly and happily for centuries, untouched by war, famine and the plague. No wandering thieves, bounty hunters, knights or feral witches could harm them or their sought after Eyes.

Six years ago, House Kuruta was massacred, their sacred Scarlet Eyes ripped from their sockets. One hundred and twenty-eight bodies drowned the once vibrant and colorful grounds of their village in blood, leaving ghastly ruins in their wake. There were no confirmed survivors.

Kurapika’s eyes open slowly, the early morning sun gleaming through the sheer fabric of the curtains. He lets out a tiny whimper, rolling on his side, facing away from the window. The narrow, wooden bed creaks beneath him and he groans at a sharp jolt of soreness rips through the top of his back, right between his shoulders and under his neck. Figures. The mattress is lumpy and downright uncomfortable, but Kurapika’s slept worse.

Judging by the time he finally forced himself to sleep the night before and the subtle lurch of hunger in his stomach, it’s around six in the morning. Kurapika doubts his landlady is awake and he’d hate to startle her with his shifting; Senritsu has incredible hearing, a side effect of her magic. At first, it startled Kurapika when she made an offhand comment about his heartbeat resembling that of a wounded predator’s when he’s angry. Kurapika has long learned to school his emotions when around her.

With a short huff through his nose, Kurapika sits up and runs a hand through his golden-blonde hair. He vaguely thinks about how long it has gotten, his bangs now saddled atop his eyebrows and the rest falling at the bottom of his neck. He eyes his desk in the corner of the relatively bare, mostly unfurnished room. Loose-leaf notes and images and textbooks and tomes litter the surface. There are ripped notebook pages scattered on the floor as well. Frowning, he gets up as quietly as he can from the bed, tip toeing to the desk without letting the floor rasp below him. He picks the sheets off the floor and shuffles them so they’re neat, placing them back on the desk with the rest of his things. He glances at the text he was reading last night and scoffs.

Right, Necromancy. Of course he’d be able to perform that without risking his brethren returning as brainless, half-animated corpses. He’s _obviously_ a master Manipulator.

He wants to hit himself for even entertaining the thought, even if it was in the middle of the night and he was half-drunk off the rice wine Leorio brought over.

Kurapika closes the book with a little more force than necessary, the large tome slamming shut with a windy _toosh._ He cringes at that and holds his breath, praying silently that he didn’t wake Senritsu up. A waits a half-a-minute then sighs when he hears nothing coming from downstairs.

Kurapika almost feels bad with how much Senritsu puts up with him. He’s hardly ever home and on the off chance that he is, he’s a grumpy, introverted mess who won’t speak unless she starts a conversation. He’s not so horrible a tenant that he doesn’t pay rent or keep their little two-level house clean, but he’s not a decent friend to her. Kurapika appreciates Senritsu for her company and her willingness to anchor his otherwise chaotic and unhinged life.

Not to mention, she provides a home not only for him, but his fallen comrades as well.

The blonde runs his fingers over the leather cover of the tome he was reading and thinks about the ten sets of Scarlet Eyes buried beneath the floorboards downstairs. Yeah, Senritsu is a damn good friend. When he initially started hunting down the Kuruta Scarlet Eyes, it hit him three sets in that he had nowhere safe to keep them without risking the warlords and insignificant nobles he snatched them from finding them again, this time with him included. Senritsu found him fumbling with the Eyes one night, two of the tediously large containers tucked protectively under his arms and the other half-stuffed in his ridiculously small closet. The talk they had after her discovery was long and very uncomfortable, but they both decided that the Eyes would be safest in her care. No one would suspect a dainty musician like her possessing give-or-take 8.9 billion jenny worth of pilfered human organs.

Speaking of the Eyes… Kurapika picks up an overturned black notebook from his desk, flipping through the pages until he reaches the most recent entry. There’s to be at least two sets of Scarlet Eyes featured at an underground auction in the Red Market of Yorknew in two weeks. While his connections are sketchy and Kurapika didn’t want to trust how accurate this information is at first, Canary confirmed the auction's existence for him. Whether or not the Eyes would make an appearance is above him, but at the very least he had to try infiltrating the auction.

He wishes Canary could go with him to Yorknew—she is much more versed in the Black Market than he is given her service to House Zoldyck. Kurapika nearly considers trying to track down Gon and Killua, wherever they are, but he decides that it’s not worth the hassle to waste time finding them then fucking off to Yorknew with two feral children in tow. Killua’s expertise on the Market would be imperative to his mission’s success, but he couldn’t risk putting them at risk. Kurapika bites his lip and thinks back to the several times he nearly had a heart attack with how zealously they endangered themselves during the Hunter Covenant. He almost swore off having children altogether until he remembered, “Oh yeah, clan restoration. Fuck.”

Involving Leorio would be even messier, he thinks with a soft laugh. He loves him dearly, the boisterous man painstakingly becoming his begrudging best friend. There was even a time where Kurapika thought that they could be more than that and he knows that Leorio has had similar thoughts. But given the paths that they’ve chosen for themselves, Kurapika couldn’t subject him to his emotional baggage. Leorio’s lucky enough that he was able to convince Kurapika to abandon his plans for revenge, albeit very reluctantly. But even still, Leorio is out saving lives while Kurapika’s trying his best not to end them. Therefore, pursuing a romantic relationship with the plague doctor would not be in his best interest, and neither would accompanying him to Yorknew.

Which leaves Kurapika in a bit of a bind. His only other ally is the one who doesn’t trust, doesn’t care for and quite frankly, he doesn’t care if he dies. Hisoka informed Kurapika after the Hunter Covenant that he would be in Yorknew for the auction, that the Eyes will be there, and that he looks forward to seeing Kurapika when the time comes. The blond shivers just recalling how the tricky, clown leaned in and whispered in his ear as if they were lovers exchanging lewd secrets. Definitely not. Kurapika briefly wonders why Hisoka would even be present at the auction, but then he halts the thought immediately. No, he will not involve himself in Hisoka’s business. If it weren’t for the Eyes, Kurapika would be continents away from Yorknew merely to avoid the risk of bumping into him.

The blonde feels unease bubbling in his stomach and he stops thinking about Hisoka. There’s more important things to worry about, so he moves on with reading his journal entry.

Kurapika doubts that he’ll be able to slip into the auction unseen and snatch one or two of the most expensive items without being caught. The Black Market is flooded with mercenaries hired as private guards by warlords and corrupt royals for the event. Kurapika is fortunate enough that he hasn’t been identified as the one stealing the Scarlet Eyes; so far, no one has been able to trace his whereabouts and his hits have been too sporadic for Eye owners to gauge when and where he’ll strike next.

It wouldn’t be his first time allying himself with a noble to make ends meet. He flips through the pages of his notebook until it lands on the page with a list of his connections. When he was seventeen, he was briefly under Lord Light Nostrade’s employ, guarding his daughter Neon while she attended a ball hosted by the Second Prince of the Kakin Empire. The experience was hellish at best, having to subject himself to Neon’s irritating childishness and playing dress up at her “request.” Even though Kurapika doesn’t mind dressing like a woman to get his way, he was far from impressed with the appalling advances from the Fourth Prince Tserriednich Hui Guo Rou. On a positive note, Kurapika became aware that he owns a collection of Scarlet Eyes and Lord Nostrade was so taken with Kurapika’s efforts to keep Neon safe that he practically pleaded with Kurapika to work for him full-time.

If seventeen-year-old Kurapika was smart, he would have taken Light’s offer. But instead, seventeen-year-old Kurapika was so focused on not blowing up in a scalding fit of rage over Tserriednich’s unwelcome suggestiveness, the goldmine of Eyes that he couldn’t take without the full force of the Kakin Empire coming for his throat and the too-tight corset Neon happily forced him in.

Nineteen-year-old Kurapika is smarter than that and far more patient. Later in the day, Kurapika will manifest a communication channel to Lord Nostrade’s personal office, spark friendly conversation about the auction and ask if he will be needing any extra protection and bidders while there. After all, there is a thief stealing sets of Scarlet Eyes and Kurapika knows that Neon will be wanting a pair.

Kurapika rolls his eyes to himself at the plan. The best way to get the eyes is to pretend, he reminds himself. When he finally has them, he’ll make up a story and say that the notorious thief attacked him and stole them before he could get them back to Lord Nostrade. It’s a ridiculous excuse, but without Neon’s fortune telling and with Kurapika’s reputation as a trustworthy and skilled subordinate, Light will believe him.

If Hisoka’s telling the truth, Kurapika will have twelve eyes hiding under Senritsu’s floorboards. Twelve down, twenty more to go.

Kurapika feels his own eyes burning at the thought and blinks rapidly until the red fades out. He couldn’t wait to grant his House peace once more.


	2. Luke 10:18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrollo's POV as the Yorknew Auction rears its head.

Five hundred years ago, perhaps longer, God felled his child, Lucifer. Freethinking and autonomous, Lucifer began chastising Him for creating humans. Lucifer saw that humans were apathetic, selfish creatures who were more capable of destruction than the first wave of beasts He gave birth to.

Lucifer observed humans from his solitary perch in the Heavens; he silently criticized them for their insanity, for how often and carelessly they would make the same mistakes. The Archangel could not fathom how flawed man was where angels were made perfect in every facet.

How could humans be so laughably weak-minded? So prone to violence? So lacking in feelings where Lucifer could feel _everything?_

When God came to stand by Lucifer and look down on the thoughtless humanity He constructed, Lucifer was stunned to see Him smiling. Only then did Lucifer understand His intentions. God was a being who enjoyed building towers fashioned from sticks only to slide one out and watch it all come crumbling down. God would create a species of hate filled creatures that praise Him unapologetically to then turn around and collapse a chapel over their fragile little heads during Mass.

Humans weren’t inherently cruel. God was.

And Lucifer, the Archangel with the Gift of Empathy, who could feel everything against his will, who worshiped God alongside those emotionally debilitated humans—

—Lucifer felt _betrayed._

Lucifer eventually revolted against God, finding Him unjust in his crimes against humanity. But when the war ended too quickly and the smoke cleared, God merely tossed his toy aside.

Lucifer Fell from Grace.

And where he Fell, Meteor City was born. Meteor City, the endless abyss of hopelessness and despair where people leave their trash forgotten.

Chrollo found this legend in a book he stole from a city elder’s study. It was the first time he stole for pleasure. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. He cherished the find, reading and rereading each myth the novel detailed about the realm.

Pakunoda scolded him for wasting his breath on such a useless score, especially considering how he got caught halfway off the estate grounds and flogged mercilessly by the guards until he narrowly escaped. Chrollo could only laugh at her mothering while she poured their last clean bottle of antiseptic down the throbbing, bloody welts on his back.

“You brat,” she hissed at him, dabbing an old shirt of hers against his wounds. “They could have killed you if they were in the mood.”

“I got away, didn’t I?” he replied smoothly, hardly phased by the horrible sting of his cuts soaking up the antiseptic. He’d suffered far worse than a whipping and a couple punches. Still, he couldn’t help but feign protest just to get a rise out of the older girl. “Why’d you have to do this? Machi’s better at treating injuries.”

“I am,” Machi deadpanned, not taking her eyes off the page she was reading in Chrollo’s stolen book. “But you deserve Paku’s bedside manner right now.” Chrollo pouted and she flipped another page, ignoring him.

“You could have taken _food_ ,” Paku continued, her voice sharp like knives, “you could have taken _water_. Jewelry, if you saw it! We need to keep pawning, or else we won’t have shit to eat except garbage. Why, _why_ are you so damn _reckless_?” Chrollo actually flinched when the scratchy shirt blotted a gash too hard for his liking.

“But this is better, isn’t it?” he asked, digging his nails into his scraped knees to hide his discomfort. “If we take things we want instead of things we need, that means we’re thinking for ourselves…!” He bit back a gasp when the shirt got caught in an open wound and _pulled_. He took the next moment to steel himself. “The elders don’t want us to have direction. They want us to act how they want, follow their rules, listen to what they have to say even though it doesn’t help any of us. If I steal a book instead of their food, I start thinking for myself. I educate myself. I become stronger on my own terms.” Questionably, Chrollo turned his head and raised a judging eyebrow at Paku. “I’d thought you’d want the same for yourself?”

Chrollo almost chortled at how quickly Paku’s outraged flush spread across her face. “I do want that!” she spluttered, schooling herself enough to jab her index finger repeatedly in the younger boy’s chest. “But I don’t want you getting hurt unnecessarily either!”

“What I did is necessary,” he countered easily, dark grey eyes gleaming with a staunch seriousness that took Paku aback. “Mental liberation is necessary. We can’t let them hold a chain around our heart anymore.”

The barely lit, dank, abandoned shed the three kids took refuge rang with a silent intensity that left Paku speechless by Chrollo’s words. Off to the side, Machi hummed in agreement, the book now closed in her hands.

“You sound like him,” Machi commented airly, “Lucifer. He wanted people to be free, too.”

Chrollo let the idea of Lucifer the Liberator wander in his imagination for some time, then nodded a bit. “I wouldn’t mind being him.”

Days later, Chrollo took Lucilfer as his last name, inspired by the Fallen Angel. Machi was silently pleased when he came to her and Paku days later announcing the news that he finally had a surname. He then unceremoniously dumped a pile of coming-of-age romance novels atop the workstation in their shed with a proud, “For you guys!” Paku pretended to be annoyed and bitched at him for his carelessness, but Chrollo saw through her façade effortlessly.

From that day forward, they swore to live by their own doctrine and take what they want. Chrollo Lucilfer and the Spider were born.

Chrollo exhales a cloud of smoke from his nose, only parting his lips to taste the salty air on his tongue. Yorknew is a bitter place, though far cleaner and much more _wet_ than Meteor City. The smell of the harbor cuts through his cigarette easily and he’s grateful. The last thing he wants is to worry the rest of his Troupe if they smell cigarette smoke on him. He’s keenly aware of their overprotectiveness and their concern for his safety when they shouldn’t be, but he doesn’t press the subject.

Chrollo picked up smoking when he turned eighteen, when the Spider started operating at full capacity. He stopped at twenty-one after a particularly dull mercenary assignment in the middle of nowhere. Paku and Machi grew quietly disquieted by his habit whereas Shalnark and Kortopi made their reservations known in private. He is their faultless Danchou, the Head of the Spider. Frivolous addictions are below him and after the Genei Ryodan established themselves as decorated, elite thieves and killers, there was no point in continuing it.

Chrollo only smokes when he’s stressed. For some strange reason, Yorknew is grating on his nerves.

Chrollo checks his watch and finds that it’s nearing six in the evening. He’s made himself at home sitting on a bench facing the inner harbor. Rusty steamboats carrying precious cargo unload at the docks some distance below him. With the sun setting in the big, smokestack city, Chrollo can finish his cig in peace without many passers-by disrupting the tranquil, urban ambiance.

His Spiders won’t be in Yorknew for another day or two. If anything, Hisoka will be the last to arrive per usual. It’s a feeble attempt to poke at the Spider Head’s composure, they both know it. Chrollo would have had Paku and Kortopi by his side by now if he were worried about Hisoka trying to get him alone, but Chrollo knows him enough to know that he won’t go so far as to attack him in a place as public as this. He’s fortunate for that, at least, as he inhales the rest of his cigarette. He vaguely feels the paper scorching the tips of his fingers cradling the filter and the burn makes him hum in satisfaction.

What is he so stressed about anyway? Robbing a venue like the underground auction is nothing to Chrollo or the rest of his Troupe. Some of the nobles in attendance expect them to show up, sure, but the rest of the Black Market assumes that the Spider will be participants in the auction’s festivities and not ransacking it for its treasures. Genei Ryodan may be notorious for their merciless kills and seemingly impossible heists, but Chrollo made it paramount that he and his Troupe are considered just as sophisticated as the rest of the vapid nobles and royal Market benefactors.

Yes, if they’re viewed as “not a threat” in situations where professionalism and decorum are required, it makes crushing their rivals’ spirits so much more rewarding.

The Spider follows its own doctrines. The Spider takes what it wants.

Chrollo smothers the cig on the empty space of the bench and flicks it into some trampled grass off to the side. He runs his hands up his face, slipping two fingers under his headband so he can feel the cross tattoo etched on his forehead. There’s a slight throb on the top of his eyebrow and he purses his lips, sighing through his nose.

So if he’s not stressed about the actual _heist_ , what is he concerned for?

The box and matches feel heavy in his pocket and Chrollo almost reaches for another stick. Instead he licks his chapped lips and eyes the sun dangling over the sea.

He read in a Fae anthropology textbook once that pixies used to fly over the water here prior to Yorknew’s rapid industrialization. The heavy smoke polluted the water, effectively killing off the pixie population. Some were able to make it out alive, much to Chrollo’s distant pleasure. He sometimes wonders where the Fae went after humans began destroying the environment to fit their self-centered needs. He supposes that the ones who didn’t die, the ones with magical properties that fit human standards, are alive somewhere. They are most likely in captivity, used as Familiars, displaced in zoos or even taken apart slowly for potions and pharmaceuticals. Considering how the plague still lingers in some continents and in the countryside, using Fae for medicine seems like a valid idea.

He knows damn well that the endangered pixie population should be the least of his concerns and sags against the bench, tipping his head back to stare at the clouds and smog floating above. 

“It feels like someone is after me,” he murmurs, pale neck bobbing when he swallows the ashy spit in his mouth from his earlier cigarette. His eyes close and he takes a breath.

Out of everything shown at the auction, the Scarlet Eyes are the most familiar to him because he was the one who introduced them to the Market. He remembers them all too well, the potency of those crimson orbs swimming inside the containers Machi sealed them in. Chrollo initially believed that the scarlet color was just burst blood vessels. He thought, after taking his first set of eyes from the dead body of a skinny, brunette woman, he had damaged the retina somehow, or perhaps he severed the optic nerve too harshly. But body after body, each corpse held those gorgeous, magical eyes and Chrollo felt something akin to falling in love when he stared into them.

It was like his entire life flashed before his eyes.

Oh, right, that was the other reason for why he stopped smoking.

Chrollo can’t remember the name of the House they scavenged from or their significance aside from the Scarlet Eyes. Six years are a long time after all. But the Eyes— _the Eyes_ are a significant development. He feels the pieces coming together in his mind, his stress hormones waning some.

Ten pairs of Scarlet Eyes over the past four years have gone missing. After Genei Ryodan sold them, over half of the sets destroyed in fires and lost at sea. This was different from those instances. 

Chrollo was twenty-three when he first heard about the series of disappearances when three pairs of Eyes taken from the same exhibit. It was a high security artifact collection near the Republic of Hass with cultural heirlooms from extinct Houses. Had Chrollo paid more attention to the museum, he would have stopped by and went shopping himself.

From what Phinks and Feitan told him, the four guards were all witches specializing in emission magic which makes it almost impossible for the run-of-the-mill thief to slip through the cracks without their aura being discovered. When the lead curator for the exhibit checked into work the next day, they were shocked to see them knocked out cold with hardly any sign of struggle. One of them was so concussed that he couldn’t stop throwing up after they came to. Another’s solar plexus was warped and bruised to the point of minor internal bleeding. 

Chrollo specifically remembers the way his eyebrows rose at the news. It was not over the Scarlet Eyes being the only artifact missing from the display. No, Chrollo had already crossed that bridge. He quickly learned during the process of selling the eyes that they lose their alluring nature with their host dead. Chrollo was _impressed_ that whoever stole the Eyes was able to do a number on the guards and hijack the exhibit security without a trace of their identity left behind. The guards couldn’t remember a single thing about the person who assaulted them, nothing from their appearance to the weapon or magic used. While the work done to the guards was undeniably messy (Chrollo wouldn’t have left them alive, too great a risk), Chrollo’s only known his Spiders and members of House Zoldyck to be that skilled.

The Spider Head almost considered having his Troupe track down whoever took the Eyes, then thought against it. He figured that the thief was concerned with selling the Eyes. After all, they were one of the most expensive human organs trafficked in the Market. And the thief took _three_ pairs at that; Chrollo assumed that they would be on the way to a remote island that they just bought with the billions of jennies in their bank account, never to be seen again.

Just when Chrollo forgot about the museum theft, nearly a full year later, Phinks was coming back _again_ with news about another set of Eyes being stolen, this time from a private compound beneath a noble’s property. Like last time, no one was killed and from what both he and Phinks could tell, the thief’s skills had improved to the point where the knights manning the estate and mercenaries within the compound were merely knocked out, their bodies hidden in a cluster _away_ from the vault with the Eyes so to distract from the thief’s motives. Anyone else would assume this was a rare art thief considering how the unconscious guards were consolidated in the wing containing rare and expensive gallery pieces.

Chrollo curses himself for not realizing sooner that two pairs of Scarlet Eyes would be at the auction. While he’s not entirely concerned with stealing the Eyes for himself, he instructed Genei to take _everything_. Unfortunately for him, the Eyes are included in that.

Chrollo’s eyes slowly drift open and he feels the corners of his lips quirk into an fascinated smile. In the past, he never sought after the Scarlet Eye thief despite feeling a sense of pride for the other criminal’s work. The Spider certainly isn’t lacking members, but if Chrollo is lucky, then the thief would attempt to strike again at the auction and take the Eyes without anyone noticing his presence.

Considering how the thief has yet to be identified, Chrollo is more than confident that they won’t attend the auction under the guise of a lowly thief. In order to pinpoint the locations of ten Scarlet Eyes in the past, especially those owned by Market-involved nobility, then the thief must have connections of his own.

The Spider Head’s smile widens at that and he feels excitement pool in his stomach. Yes, the thief will come in costume, cloaked in civility just like him. He will take part in the auction, Chrollo decides, sitting up with the roll of his broad shoulders beneath his white dress shirt. Tendrils of his pitch black hair wisp across his cheeks and chin when a short, gentle gust of wind sails by, filling his nose the smell of the harbor. While lost in thought, the sun had set on the horizon, the visible sky now tinged in a grayish-purple hue.

With a simple, thoughtless command, Chrollo’s aura paws through the inborn magic that surrounds him. His breath hitches when he feels a gentle, familiar presence reach back from miles away, racing down the freight train tracks towards Yorknew’s metropolitan district; Machi and Shizuku are close, destined to be in the city later tonight.

From another direction, far into the sea, Nobunaga and Uvogin’s aura both scream in anticipation at reuniting with their dear Danchou. Chrollo wants to laugh; from what he can tell simply from the color and feel of their magic, they must have killed someone, or a few someones, and stole their boat just to sail here. Chrollo can’t fault them for their enthusiasm; it’s been over four months since the entire Genei Ryodan have worked a hit together. He’ll never show it, but he’s just as anxious to see them again. They’ve become family to him even though that was never his intention when he founded the Spider.

He supposes it was inevitable for this to happen. His Troupe has lived and survived by him since Meteor City. He’s bonded with them.

Standing up from the bench, Chrollo brushes the non-existent dust from his pants and turns away from the harbor. He’ll get a hotel for the night then be ready to meet with his Spiders in the designated rendezvous point they discussed months prior tomorrow.

Chrollo can’t help but wonder how the Scarlet Eye thief will fit into their little family once he recruits them. How will they feel when they finally encounter the people who sold the Eyes in the first place?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How y'all feel about Chrollo smoking? I think it's hot but thats just me lol
> 
> I'm in love with the idea that Chrollo, before meeting Kurapika, internally hypes him up. He lowkey does it in the canon after Uvo's death with how he thinks about recruiting him and I am here for it..........even though that's his job in the first place. He's supposed to recruit people who kill the OG people lmaoooo
> 
> But then again, when Hisoka does his fuck shit, Chrollo's bout ready to punch his teeth down his throat so... double standards ig?
> 
> I'm really into the idea that Paku and Machi were like Chrollo's big sisters back in Ryūseigai. I have no idea how old either of them are (in fact, most of Genei's ages and origins are unknown) but considering how fiercely loyal they are to Chrollo that Paku literally dies for him and Machi does that fuck shit with Hisoka in the manga for him, I'd say the three of them are/were pretty close. I just don't see the same relationship with the other characters, aside from Shalnark and Kortopi and maybe that's because Chrollo lowkey cut them all off emotionally in order to protect the Spider.
> 
> He realized far too late with Paku that him emotionally detaching from them doesn't mean that they'd be willing to do the same and that makes me kinda sad.
> 
> ...Who fucking knows tho I'm sitting here listening to Frank Ocean in the middle of the night typing this so I'm emotional asfffff
> 
> Also I might add original art for some of the chapters. Nothing too spectacular because I just have the time, but something so y'all can at least get an idea of what Kurapika, Chrollo and the others look like.


	3. Stigmata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurapika's past and his seemingly never-ending turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news and bad news. The good news is that there will be two chapters uploaded back to back! It used to be one really long chapter, but I thought it'd be better to split it in half. Bad news... these chapters are purely exposition. I'm sorry that I'm not jumping into the plot! I really wish I could, but this AU requires a lot of extensive world building and the last thing I want is to fuck up mid-story with a plot hole and leave you all confused to disappointed.
> 
> I also decided that the setting will be a bit more modern than I originally intended. Royalty and nobles still exist, as well as the noble Houses (such as House Kuruta, may they rest in peace, and House Zoldyck). Y'all may be wondering what qualifies as a House and I will explain that in the coming chapters as they become more relevant (AKA, once Gon and Killua are introduced).
> 
> I really hope you all enjoy this chapter and the one after. I spent a lot of time trying to tailoring Togashi's already flawless world-building to this fic along with my own adjustments for the AU. I promise we'll get back to Chrollo and the main plot ASAP.

Kurapika had been in the outside world for a total of six weeks before the terrible news came that the Kurutas were murdered. The shock that chilled his bones stayed there, unmoving, from the time he stumbled out of the library in the neighboring village to the moment he stepped foot in the mouth of his village two days later. With the advent of advanced architectural technology phasing into Lukso’s remote countryside, the province authorities were able to tear through the massive trees to reach the village gates in the span of three hours.

After all, there was no more magic deterring their passage.

His memories of his village were always so fond and lively; House Kuruta’s culture was heavily enamored with life in all its forms. There was never a time where the streets weren’t bathed in striking colors and patterns. The days were filled with the sounds of laughing children and the evenings with families chattering in the warmth of their homes. Everyone knew each other, it was impossible not to, yet no one grew tired of each other's constant presence. It felt like someone was there protecting and supporting their neighbor, their friend, their spouse, their child, their sister, their brother, their cousin. The Kuruta always smiled, always laughed, always seemed happy. Always seemed impervious to the pain and suffering outside of their little village.

It had never been so silent before. The tiny, harmless animals and fae that wandered the streets and gardens were nowhere to be seen either, as if they panicked and retreated as soon as the bloodbath commenced. Dread pooled in the depths of Kurapika’s stomach when he took his first, careful step passed the threshold. The shackles of death encircled his heart, the painful, desperate wails of his brethren whispering in his ears.

And even still, undeterred by the leftover blood stains coating the ground and the haphazard police tape swaying with the ghostly wind, the initial shock did not leave him until he reached his childhood home. The door was kicked in with such ferocity that the knob splintered the wood of the house.

The stench of blood mingled too familiarly with the almost faded aroma of his mother’s cooking. He could practically taste both on his lead-laden tongue. His parents’ bodies were gone, escorted off the property by the police days ago, but Kurapika’s imagination was too vivid as the harsh reality drifted into the forefront of his mind. From what he heard from the shameless gossip in his new home, each member of his House’s eyes were gouged out, but their corpses were left discarded, tainted, tampered with.

The vicious sting in his eyes brought Kurapika back to life. A sob wracked through his throat and a piercing, pathetic thing wretched past his lips. Here he was, alone in front of the home he was raised in, his family snatched away after he had abandoned them, the lone survivor of House Kuruta. The last of his people, the last of his name.

He was only fourteen.

Kurapika had spent the night in the ghost town; he slept in his parents’ bed, whimpering pitifully until sleep accosted him. He woke up so early the next morning that the sun had yet to rise over his dreary forest and he was so very tempted to just lay there, breathing in the last of his childhood home’s scent until death eventually returned to the village to claim him, too. His mind cursed him for being so selfish. Despite the overwhelming pain and sorrow in his heart, he knew that he owed it to his kinsmen to live.

Depressed and unbearably guilty, Kurapika rummaged through the house for whatever money he could find. His family’s murderer was not so merciful as to leave behind the safe in his father’s study, nor the spare change in the dish his mother kept in the kitchen for emergencies. “So they’re a thief, then,” Kurapika murmured, anger creeping up his neck. For the second time, his eyes stung with their brief transformation to the deep scarlet his House’s murderer was so invested with.

Fine. He knew what kind of monster to hunt for then.

Kurapika’s eyes shifted back to their original charcoal hue and he balked at his sudden bloodlust. His House was a peaceful one and notions such as violence and vengeance were severely discouraged by the Elders. Kuruta magic depended on life energy, they said. Their magic was meant to cherish life, not destroy it. Therefore, Kurapika was not raised a vindictive person. But now…

But now.

Now the House was in tatters and what remained was Kurapika, the first Kuruta bold enough to demand the right to traverse the outside world in almost two hundred years. The last of their House. The only one who could see the repercussions of passiveness and complacency.

Kurapika was able to recover 53,600 jenny. It wasn’t enough to continue living in the hotel room he had taken refuge in the next town over and it certainly wouldn’t be enough to successfully track down his House’s killer. But the blonde child was determined to make it work by any means necessary as he kissed his parents’ home goodbye, enormous grief in his actions. On his way out, he took a pair of his mother’s _bokken_ which she kept in the closet under the stairs and told Kurapika not to touch until she deemed him ready to learn how to use them.

Kurapika forced himself past his neighbor’s houses on their block, past the marketplace where his mother used to sell hibiscus pies on Sundays, past the rickety town hall where the elders conducted their meetings, past the tiny schoolhouse Kurapika spent the better part of his childhood learning in. Past the constant reminders that Kurapika had a beautiful, wonderful childhood surrounded by people who loved him unconditionally even though he chose to desert them.

Tears stung the corners of Kurapika’s eyes and he knew they were red again, but he didn’t cry.

It took two weeks for the money to run out regardless of Kurapika’s efforts to stretch it. While he originally planned to stay in the neighboring village and find a job, Kurapika quickly realized that it was impossible to stay there when rumors and lore surrounding House Kuruta continued to circulate without end. Their murder just so happened to be the most exciting thing to happen in Lukso since their inhabitance and that made Kurapika sick to his stomach. The blonde decided then to travel elsewhere and seek work when he found it. He needed to build his strength in order to find the thief that slaughtered his House and disrespected their bodies.

Unfortunately, the Lukso Province was so far behind technologically that new-age inventions from the West such as automobiles and train rails had yet to venture to the countryside. Due to this, Kurapika was forced to walk if he wished to leave Lukso and arrive in a slightly more industrialized country.

What was worse was that no one told him that Lukso was nowhere on modern maps. Apparently, his home province was so secluded and uneventful that most cartographers had little interest in specifying its exact global location. For all Kurapika knew, he could be continents away from advanced civilization.

Multiple times during his voyage, he found himself screaming his voice hoarse at the seemingly limitless blue sky and the same, motionless clouds.

It wasn’t for another week of walking northwest (and, at his worst, limping) that Kurapika made contact with humans once again and, to his luck and stark amazement, they rode in an automobile. Kurapika nearly wept from the relief that shook him when the jittery-looking machine on four, impossibly thin wheels came to a stop beside him, a window rolling down to reveal the face of a sickly pale woman with stringy, brown hair and a sleeping baby cradled in her arms. Past her, in the driver’s seat, was a slightly older man with high, jaunted cheekbones and crooked spectacles. Both adults peered at Kurapika with such a distinct _worry_ that Kurapika almost convinced himself that they were his parents reincarnated.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” the woman asked gently, but her voice was scratchy in a way that made Kurapika’s stomach flip in warning. Although she didn’t _seem_ dangerous, Kurapika wasn’t naive enough to trust just any strangers, no matter how tempting their automobile and the idea of _sitting_ felt. “You shouldn’t be out here all alone. Where’s your parents?”

Kurapika’s chest swelled at the mention of his parents, but he was able to tame his broken heart. Hesitantly, he said, “in town. I’m headed there now.” The lie felt odd coming from his mouth. Kurapika wasn’t taught how to lie and his family certainly had no tolerance for it, so he grew up favoring total honesty.

The man at the wheel raised an eyebrow at Kurapika and the boy’s heart raced at the belief that he was caught, that these people knew exactly who he was and perhaps came to claim the last pair of Kuruta Eyes. Kurapika’s grip on his travel sack tightened; his _bokken_ were close to him if things were to escalate, even if he still had yet to understand the proper handling of the blunt swords.

“The next town from here isn’t for another fifty miles,” the man informed him instead and Kurapika felt like screaming again. There was no way he could walk another fifty miles. His feet felt raw and so throbbed painfully that he was dragging them uselessly. He’d hadn’t eaten in almost three days when there were no stores, restaurants or edible vegetation in sight. He wouldn’t deign kill an animal for a decent meal; his House taught him better than that. All life was sacred, with the exception of the thief and murderer he was after.

As if sensing the dread in Kurapika’s expression despite how hard he tried to keep his face as even as possible, the man then asked, “Would you like a ride there? We can drop you off at their home, but then we have to be on our way.”

The pale woman’s eyes widened almost comically and she tore her gaze from Kurapika and rounded it on her husband. “ _Yoshihiro_ ,” she hissed at him, but not with malice, rather with raw panic. “We can’t have him in here with us. Who knows what may happen?”

Kurapika’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as the couple whispered back and forth in a language Kurapika couldn’t place. House Kuruta spoke a second language as well as the Common Tongue, so he figured that there were other foreign languages that he was never exposed to. Such was the allure of the Outside World, something Kurapika came to admire and loathe all at once. It bothered him that these people decided that whatever they had to say did not concern Kurapika. Or maybe, from what the woman said, they didn’t want to startle him.

“I can continue on foot,” he forced himself to say, hating how that was his only option if he wanted to reach the town. “I would hate to impose.”

“Nonsense,” the man exclaimed brightly over his partner’s head, much to her chagrin as her argument was effectively shut down. She glanced at him once more and appraised him in a way only a mother could; Kurapika figured that she was scrutinizing his exhausted, unkempt and malnourished appearance.

For the second time, Kurapika felt tears in his eyes, but he refused to cry.

“Please,” the man continued, opening the door to his side of the car and adjusting the seat with a harsh tug, revealing the spacious back of the car. “Make yourself comfortable. You look like hell, kid. You can sleep if you want and we’ll wake you when we arrive in town, then you can give us your parents’ address.”

Kurapika’s eyes widened and he chided himself for how open-ended his lie was; now he’d have to point them to a random house likely away from the town’s working district and find his way back to it. But his poor feet celebrated the news that they’d be able to rest and his eyelids began to droop as soon as sleep was brought into the conversation. Kurapika knew that he needed to be careful—these people were strangers to him. And yet their kindness seemed so _genuine_ and the invitation was too good to refuse.

Kurapika rounded the automobile and slid into the leather, black seats. They were not the most comfortable thing he had sat on, but his legs sang with relief. He clutched his bag tightly, maybe as a silent warning to Yoshihiro not to get any sudden ideas, but the “thank you so much” that spilled from his mouth promptly discredited any malicious implications. Yoshihiro sent him a warm smile in return and fixed his seat so that he could drive again, forcing Kurapika to bunch his legs a little too closely to his body for his liking, but it didn’t stop the soft snores coming from the baby in the woman’s arms from lulling the Kuruta’s brain to sleep as soon as the car began to move.

Exhaustion slid off his heavy limbs and Kurapika, still boneless but far more relaxed than he’d been in weeks, awoke not at the careful ministrations of the couple in the front seats, but at the whooping cough coming from their baby. The woman tried to sooth the child, kneading soft circles into its chest, but the coughing only strengthened. Kurapika didn’t dare open his eyes, not wanting to alert them of his presence.

“It's getting worse,” the woman sighed, hopelessness in her voice. “I’m scared, Yoshi, I don’t know if we’ll be able to get to the clinic in time—” She cut herself off with a wheeze, a series of harsh rasps escaping her. Yoshihiro turned to them, placing a hand on the top of her back and rubbing it.

“We’ll be there soon, darling, don’t worry. We just have to drop off this child and we’ll move out quickly,” he reassured her, but even he seemed bleak.

“The child could have the plague now, too,” she whispered back and Kurapika’s heart stopped. Plague? What plague? Was that something else his House kept hidden from him? Suddenly, the woman’s sickly visage and earlier apprehension made perfect sense. “What good will we be doing to leave him there and risk having it spread? We should take him to the clinic with us. He needs to be quarantined.”

“Didn’t you hear what he said? He said his parents live in that _plague town_. He knows the risks.” Oh. So there was no avoiding it. At least he now knew what he was bound to encounter although the fear still gripped him.

Without him meaning to, a cough ripped from his mouth and Kurapika’s eyes shot open. He doubled over in the seat, facing away from the back of the woman’s head, and hacked violently into his hand. Anxious voices were calling to him, but his ears rang and he could hardly make out what the couple was saying. The Kuruta shuddered as his body calmed itself, unfocused eyes now staring hard at the small pool of blood resting in his palm.

“It’s fast-acting,” Yoshihiro informed him, solemn, sending him apologetic looks from the rear-view mirror. “My wife, son and I were on our way to a clinic three towns past your home, but it’s out of your way. We thought that perhaps you were already exposed to the plague and were immune, or that you knew what you were getting into. The town your family lives has been wrought with the plague for a year.”

Just his fucking luck. “It’s fine,” he croaked, wiping the blood on his dirty tunic and righting himself in the seat. “It’s fine,” he said again, avoiding looking at the raw _distress_ in the woman’s features.

Yoshihiro stared at him with pursed lips for another minute before looking away, focusing back on the road. “We’ll be there in another hour, so you should get some more rest,” he informed Kurapika. The blond said nothing and forced his eyes back closed with a shaky sigh.

It’s fine, he told himself. The baby was deathly silent and Kurapika couldn’t help but wonder if he had succumbed to the illness while saddled in the safety of his mother’s arms.

When the couple woke Kurapika up again, the sun had set behind layers of blackened smog. The town, called Hanahaki, was a miserable, grey port district populated with steel mills. Kurapika’s nose wrinkled at the atrocious smell; having lived in a forest untouched by pollution all his life, the urban cityscape of the town made his lungs heave. Not only that, but the thick scent of _disease_ was so potent, Kurapika could vomit. The streets were bare of any life, but unlike his village that wreaked of death, Hanahaki smelled of the _dying_.

It’s fine, he said again, aimlessly directing Yoshihiro further into the town into what looked like a neighborhood. Kurapika had never seen apartment complexes in person, but he read about them in books. Public housing was a new concept to the urban setting, allowing more people to live in small spaces closer to work, bringing capitalism into cities. Kurapika figured that such close-quarters living contributed greatly to the rapid spread of the plague. The blonde told them to stop in front of a brown, rotting, desolate apartment building. If he was lucky, there would be an abandoned room that he could make his temporary home until he managed to sweat out the plague. Kurapika’s body had always been unusually resilient to sickness and he figured that walking for days non-stop and hardly eating caused the plague to target him.

It’s fine, he said once more, compelling himself to exiting the double-edged safety of Yoshihiro’s automobile. The couple asked him if he’d be okay and he could tell that they were reluctant to leave him in such a damning place. Kurapika smiled, reassured them that he’d be alright, that his parents were waiting for him, that they should get to the clinic as soon as they could.

It’s fine, he cursed himself, waving as the rickety car drove off, leaving him in the dust.

It’s fine, he pleaded to himself, the chilly fear and loneliness engulfing him all over again.

“It’s fine,” he breathed, taking one step towards the apartment building before his knee buckled under him and he went collapsing to the ground, the air knocked from his lungs. The sidewalk felt cold under his hands and cheek and he pondered if this was how his parents felt in their last moments.

Kurapika saw nothing but black and accepted his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoshihiro = Togashi Yoshihiro. See what I did there?
> 
> I seem to enjoy torturing Kurapika psychologically. There's something wrong with me, I know.


	4. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurapika is given life, a good doctor, a gentle musician and a new home. For a moment, he is happy. For a moment, he forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exposition, I am so sorry. But then again, this is much better than plot holes. Also, y'all get a lil bit of Leopika (I admit, I shipped this when I first started watching HxH and I was prepared to go down with it, but then Togashi had to fuck around and create Chrollo who is basically a god and I immediately became his whore and personal hole.) (Still. Stan Leorio. He's a king in his own right, even tho he pissed me off for the better part of season 1)

When he came to, there was a painful throbbing in his head, his throat was on fire and there was a damp rag on his forehead. Kurapika groaned and tried to open his eyes, but he found them caked over with mucus.

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy, now, alright? Don’t force yourself to move just yet,” an unfamiliar voice chided him and Kurapika felt panic seep in upon realizing that he was no longer outside, but an unfamiliar place. Judging from the way his body was situated, laying on his back with his feet resting atop something, he must have been sleeping on this person’s couch. The rag was removed from his head and replaced with another one, this one much cooler and wetter. Kurapika almost sighed in relief.

“W-Where am I,” he gasped, feeling another wave of coughs lift in his throat, but he was able to damper them. “Who are you? I can’t… I-I can’t see…” The involuntary blindness that came with his condition did little to dull his anxiety. This must have been what they felt when the murderer took their Eyes, he thought to himself, horrified.

Something cold prodded at Kurpika’s lips and his mouth fell open against his will. The object eased its way under his tongue harmlessly. A thermometer then. “Close your mouth,” the voice demanded, but it was gentle enough that Kurapika felt like he could trust it. His mouth closed and it was silent again for a few moments. Then the unknown person pulled the thermometer from his mouth and said nothing; the blond presumed that he was gauging the mercury level. “Your temperature’s 37.8 degrees Celsius. That’s good. Your fever finally broke, but just barely. I’ll continue to monitor you and make sure you get fluids.”

“I don’t understand,” Kurapika whispered, sleep pulling at him once more and he fought it off the best he could. A blanket was dropped over Kurapika’s form, thick and a bit scratchy, but warm. There was some shifting beside his head and the Kuruta could only guess that his guardian was standing up.

“Found you passed out on the sidewalk,” the voice informed him gruffly, as if it was a pain to willingly save Kurapika’s life. “I carried you back to my place. You’ve been asleep for two days now.” If Kurapika’s eyes could burst open in shock, they would, but he settled for groaning in frustration instead, rolling onto his side and tugging his knees closer to his chest beneath the blanket. The person paused before adding, “don’t beat yourself up. You look foreign as all get-out, you probably didn’t even know about the plague up here. It’s fine though, you’re lucky that I got to you instead of some shifty bastard.”

It’s fine, Kurapika’s mind echoed and he breathed a laugh that sounded dead in his ears. “You still haven’t… told me who you are.” The person scoffed and there was some more shifting in front of Kurapika. The person was cleaning up their workstation.

“Leorio Paladiknight. I’m an apprentice plague doctor,” the person said, now walking away from Kurapika and presumably leaving the room. “I’m tired as fuck, but now that I know you’re not gonna up and die on my couch, I’m going to bed. Get some rest. If you wake up before me, just holler.” What sounded like a light switch was flicked before Leorio left and sleep crawled back to the forefront of Kurapika’s mind when he was once again submerged in darkness.

Kurapika learned that Leorio was traveling the countryside and researching the plague, an assignment that he was given by his professors at the university he attended in Zaban City. More cities were beginning to experience the pandemic once more, so student and professional doctors alike were doing everything they could to find a cure or something to reduce the spread of the contagion. Leorio was a special case amongst the other students, Kurapika found, when Leorio explained how he was so comfortable with being around a highly contagious patient like him.

“My village was hit with the plague ten-times over when I was growing up,” he said, a stunning grin splitting his face. Had Kurapika been in a better physical state, he would have laughed, but he was still trying to recover from the deadlier plague symptoms invading his body. “Got the plague three times when I was a kid. It’s funnier to think about in hindsight; instead of quarantining, I wanted to hang out with friends all the time. My body kinda grew immunity after a while.”

Kurapika snorted at that, taking liberal sips at the herbal tea Leorio made for him. “Old man like you, I’m surprised your immune system still has a tolerance.” Leorio’s jaw dropped and he guffawed in a way that should have been comical if he wasn’t so obviously offended. “What?” Kurapika snarked, confused.

“How old are you?” he all but demanded. The Kuruta was tempted to ignore his antics and finish his tea, maybe even tell Leorio off for making so much noise when he was still so sensitive to sharp sounds.

“Fifteen,” he murmured, shifting his gaze away from Leorio. He almost forgot that his birthday was a mere five days ago, but Kurapika was too busy trekking the too-flat countryside plains.

“I’m a teenager, just like you!” he shouted, far too loud, but Kurapika didn’t notice in favor of staring openly at the gangly man sitting across from him with his too-long arms and legs, three piece suit sans jacket and tie and circular, hardwired spectacles.

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not!” Leorio insisted with fervor. “I’m seventeen! Only two years older than you!”

“Well that is certainly something to be proud of,” Kurapika chuckled, smiling behind his mug as Leorio spluttered over his words.

It wasn’t until Kurapika was accompanying Leorio on a boat back to Zaban City, fully recovered from the plague in a matter of three weeks due to the doctor’s diligent care, that he realized that he made his first friend.

In Zaban, Leorio introduced Kurapika to his neighbor, Senritsu, a mouselike woman with a small voice and large teeth. Having been stuck in close quarters with Leorio on the boat for two weeks, fussing at him and sparring with him, Senritsu’s delicate spirit gave him much needed ease. The doctor was able to convince Senritsu into letting Kurapika stay in the empty attic she had been meaning to rent out for months in exchange for Kurapika taking care of the house until he found work.

“As you can see,” she said, gesturing to herself in a joking way, “my size makes it difficult for me to complete certain tasks at home. Until you find work, you’d needn’t worry about paying rent, Kurapika.”

The blonde was uncomfortable with the notion of taking charity at first. It took copious debating on Leorio’s part for Kurapika to finally agree with the arrangement.

“I live with a man named Zepile just down the street if you ever need me,” Leorio told him, his hands on his hips authoritatively, eyes narrowed at Kurapika who sat on the mattress the attic provided, unloading book after book from his travel sack. “Senritsu is a nice lady. I’m sure you’ll enjoy her company until you stop freeloading.”

“I was under the impression that you were the one sponsoring my ‘freeloading,’” the younger teen clapped back, but without the bite in his voice he designated for his friend’s antics. Leorio only grinned at him and made his way to the door to leave Kurapika alone.

“I mean it,” he said again, stopping in the doorway. “This will be good for you after everything you’ve dealt with for the past couple months.” It was on the boat that Kurapika finally broke down and told Leorio about him, about his House, and made the doctor swear not to tell anyone who he really was. The last thing Kurapika needed was the murderer finding out there was a set of eyes left unchecked and to have them come for Kurapika when he was still so _weak_.

“I believe you,” Kurapika responded and, quietly, he added, “but thank you for this. And for everything else you’ve done for me. I owe you my life, Leorio.” His friend’s face reddened at the sight of Kurapika’s gratitude. This was the first time the blonde had thanked him for anything. The taller teen simply grumbled curses under his breath about Kurapika owing him both his life _and_ a hefty payment for his services when he was ill before exiting.

Kurapika was alone once more for the first time in over a month, but the prickle of loneliness no longer tortured him.

Once more, tears welled in the boy’s eyes, but he did not cry.

Senritsu proved to be a pleasant landlady, the tiny woman not asking Kurapika for much except to grab a few high objects for her and clean unreachable places here or there. They took turns cooking, Kurapika introducing her to a number of cultural vegetarian cuisines from his people, but he never told her where he learned the recepies. Sometimes, if they shared the downstairs living room, Kurapika would sit in the love-seat with his knees to his chest, reading a book or a scroll, learning spells and potions and species of fae, and Senritsu would compose music at her piano or practice her flute. Kurapika developed a strong appreciation for his companion’s music and he’d sometimes listen to her play out of pure enjoyment, his book closed in his hands. Occasionally, Leorio would visit them, sometimes bringing along Zepile, his antique appraiser friend and roommate.

Things were… oddly domestic. In the weeks turned months Kurapika spent adjusting to Zaban with Leorio and Senritsu, he would even say he felt happy.

Then Leorio came to visit one overcast afternoon, his lips pressed in a firm line as he and Kurapika fled upstairs to the attic to speak in private. Kurapika knew that Senritsu could hear no matter what part of the house they decided to converse in, so the woman told Kurapika that she would go buy some ingredients for dinner that night and left, leaving the two young adults alone.

“You said that House Kuruta’s Eyes were stolen, right?” Leorio asked urgently, closing the door to Kurapika’s room. Kurapika hardly made it to his bed before he tripped over his own feet onto it, startled.

“Yes,” he answered, his eyebrows worrying together. “Why are you asking me about that?” Leorio grimaced and came to sit beside the blond, facing him.

“Zepile appraises antiques, right? But sometimes he messes around with dicier artifacts. Sometimes things that are worth a lot of money circle through more _lucrative_ circles and he finds out about it.” Leorio took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before carrying on. “The Scarlet Eyes, they got sold informally. They’re floating in the Black Market.”

And just like that, Kurapika was reminded that happiness was a deceptive emotion. His breath hitched and Kurapika suppressed the dry heave that shot up his throat. Leorio caught him by the shoulder when he swayed, but the blonde’s hand slapped him away before he could stop himself.

“Please don’t touch me right now,” he hissed, feeling his Eyes burn red for the first time in months. Leorio must have sensed his hostile intent and pulled away, watching Kurapika with a dumbstruck face as his friend’s eyes shifted back and forth from that piercing Scarlet. Kurapika settled on burying his head in his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair to steady himself.

“Breathe, Kurapika,” Leorio told him, far too gentle for the Kuruta to deserve. Just how did someone as broken as him deserve a selfless friend like Leorio? Kurapika inhaled hard through his nose, the sound stuttering and he dug his fingers into his scalp. Breathe: he released the shaky breath, then repeated the action. Breathe in, breathe out, let the explosive anger fade away. He didn’t want Leorio to see that side of him, the side demanding justice bathed in blood. The side that wanted to rip out the thief’s eyes as just retribution.

Wet, hot tears smarted the backs of his eyes, but he refused to cry.

“Have they all been sold yet?” Kurapika finally asked, shoulders slumping. He could hear Leorio let out a relieved sigh before the older man leaned back on the bed, his hands resting on the surface.

“Not all of them. They’re too damn expensive.” Leorio winced and his eyes flicked to Kurapika worryingly, fearing that he may have offended his friend. Instead, Kurapika huffed something akin to a laugh, but it was too broken for it to be anything of the sort.

“The Eyes are considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. People have pined after them for centuries, which is why my House fled to Lukso. Of course my people would cost a pretty jenny on the Market.”

“I see,” Leorio replied, uncertain. “So, uh, what are you gonna do about it? It won’t matter how much money you and I can pool together. You won’t be able to buy all of them back at this rate.”

“No, I guess not,” Kurapika agreed, resting his forearms on his knees, staring lifelessly at the closed door. Silence flooded the room for several minutes and Leorio shifted uncomfortably beside blonde, waiting for him to have the next word and ignoring his lack of patience. Kurapika could appreciate Leorio’s concern for his mental state. He’ll be a wonderful doctor as soon as he’s done with school. “I may just have to take them by force.”

Leorio was unresponsive for all of five seconds before he spat out a puzzled, “Huh? How the fuck are you gonna do that?”

Kurapika shrugged dismissively, much to Leorio’s annoyance and sat back up, clutching his knees with more force than he’d like. “Magic,” he finally said, more confident. “I’ll learn magic. I’ll get strong. Then I’ll steal the Eyes. No one needs to be hurt.” Then I’ll find my House’s murderer and grant them death, he thought, but he didn’t voice this out of fear of Leorio’s reaction.

“But I thought you already, y’know…” Leorio awkwardly pushed his glasses up his nose and that was all Kurapika needed to understand.

“My Eyes are just a physical manifestation of my people’s magic. That does not mean that I know how to use it,” he told his friend, irritation gripping him at the insinuation. It must have bled into his words or shown on his face given the way his friend flinched. Kurapika sighed and went on. “My House’s tradition was to teach its members magic at sixteen, once they were mature enough to handle it. Our magical energy is codependent on our home and our emotional state. Kuruta magic is based on life energy. It would have been unwise for children to perform feats of magic that could manipulate the forest’s ecosystem. Besides,” Kurapika stopped to consider it, “everyone’s magic is different. Yes, my Kuruta magic depends on life, but inborn specialization could be anything, really. Due to the passive nature of my people, we did not focus our teachings on the specializations. Only on preserving our home.”

Kurapika felt grief strike his bones and engrain itself in his blood and closed his eyes, taking another breath. Leorio, who was studying his face, opened his mouth to say something, most likely offering his condolences, but decided against it. Kurapika was thankful for that. The last thing he needed was pity.

“Have you tried talking to Senritsu about this?” Leorio questioned instead.

“About my House’s slaughter? I have not.”

“No, shit, not that, damn.” Kurapika winced at the iciness in his tone. Shit, he didn’t mean to take out his anger on Leorio. The apology was unspoken and Leorio just grunted, half-heartedly shoving Kurapika’s shoulder. The boy made a sound in protest, but his friend ignored it. “You do know that she’s a witch, right?”

That caught Kurapika off guard. His posture straightened like a rod and he barked out a less than polite, “Are you serious?”

Leorio sent him a disbelieving look. “‘Course I am. Did you honestly think that she looks the way she does because she was _born that way_? Did you think that her hearing is just _that_ good?” Kurapika felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Of course he didn’t really think that, but he also didn’t want to question it if it was true. Over the course of his journey in the outside world he’s learned that people were a variety of shapes, sizes and colors, nothing like his remote, little village. “She was cursed or something,” Leorio kept going, pointedly disregarding Kurapika’s stupidity. Kurapika knew that he’d use it against him later when his emotions weren’t in tatters. “Just go to her and see what she did to learn magic. I’m sure she can tell you more than me.”

So that’s what Kurapika did, practically running her over as soon as she came home. “Can you tell me what you did to learn magic?” His voice was louder than necessary due to his desperation, but he winced at the same time as her at it. The woman looked up at him strangely, but ended up giggling under her breath and stepping past him to make way for the kitchen.

“If you help me prep the food, we can discuss it over dinner.” Grateful, Kurapika followed close to her heels, careful not to step on her. Thank you, he wailed in his mind to his ancestors and fallen kin. Thank you, he thought again, smiling when Leorio’s cheeky grin came to mind.

“Have you ever heard of the Hunter’s Association?” Senritsu began. They were sitting at the barely touched dining room table overlooking the backyard. Typically, Kurapika took his food back to his room to eat in peace while Senritsu occupied herself at her piano, composing and feasting at the same time.

Kurapika pursed his lips and tried to remember. “I’d read about it in a book once,” he answered. “It’s one of the oldest Covens in the realm, having managed the circulation of magic and fae for centuries. It also opens itself to aspiring witches annually so that they pledge their allegiance to the order.”

“It’s a very selective process,” Senritsu assented, bringing a sprig of steamed broccoli to her lips and chewing carefully. She swallowed then carried on. “I was very young when I first attempted to join the Coven. I failed on my first try. Then the second. It took four tries, actually, for me to be admitted.”

“It’s that difficult?” Kurapika’s eyebrows rose in surprise, his landlady nodding along.

“They do it to guarantee that the witches among their ranks can dedicate themselves fully to maintaining the arts as well as preserving balance and order. There are many people born with magical talent with dangerous motives. The Hunter Covenant ensures that the witches are worthy enough to be a part of such a prestigious Coven.”

“Wow,” Kurapika muttered, slumping back in his chair and abandoning his meal. If passing the Covenant was so challenging, would he stand a chance in mastering magic in time? He could feel stress wash over him at the thought of his brethren’s Eyes disappearing for good.

“Your heart is racing,” Senritsu commented, frowning at him. “You should know that I have very little innate magical prowess, Kurapika. Without natural talent, securing a place in the Coven is next to impossible. But you… you’re not me.” Kurapika’s eyes shifted back to her as she surprised him for the second time that night. “I can hear what your magic sounds like. Most witches can only see another person’s aura, but you’re so conspicuous, it’s amazing.” 

Her eyes closed and her hands raised and waved in the air in the same way she’d do so when pretending to conduct. “Your aura _sings_ , it’s so vibrant. But the song is laden with angst and rage. Sometimes I can’t sleep at night because I can hear your magic cry to me.” Her hands slid back into her lap and her eyes reopened, focused on Kurapika with an intensity he had never seen from her until then. “That is the difference between you and I, Kurapika. If you intend on participating in the Covenant, I’m more than certain that you’d pass.”

Senritsu’s words reignited his confidence some, but he still fidgeted with doubt. “Can’t you just teach me?” He sounded childish and they both knew it. Senritsu smiled and bowed her head in good humor.

“Everyone’s magic varies, Kurapika. I can tell from the tune your aura sings that I would be a poor mentor. We’re opposites.” Damn. Kurapika sighed and picked up his chopsticks again, teasing the white rice on his plate.

“But I would be able to take part in the Covenant without knowing even the most basic spells?”

“My understanding of magic was limited to _Abracadabra_ when I tried out,” Senritsu reassured him. “The Covenant will teach you what you need to know. I can’t disclose the full lengths of each phase, but I can tell you that you’ll be much closer to mastering magic when it's over.” Taking another tentative bite from her dinner, Senritsu put her chopsticks down and fully addressed Kurapika. “The Hunter Covenant begins on the first Friday next month. Do you plan on attending?”

Just a month away? Kurapika hadn’t realized the Covenant would be so soon. He considered his options carefully, weighing the risks. He was no novice to magic when seeing it in action, but he could not perform any spells of his own. He was not in touch with his aura. He could hardly defend himself, although using Leorio and his trust switchblade as a practice dummy for his _bokken_ aboard the boat to Zaban certainly helped him improve. On the bright side, Kurapika learned that he was fast and agile. He could think well under pressure. He could manage under high stress situations as long as he remained focused and disciplined. And if worse came to worse… Kurapika’s Eyes blessed him with ridiculous feats of strength and speed. Life magic, he reminded himself.

“Yes,” he finally ended up saying and he took a breath as determination surged inside of him. Finally, he felt like he had a purpose once again. He could stay on this path that brought him closer and closer to recovering the Eyes and to the killer. In the meantime, he could train. He could research as much as he could about magic in combat situations. He could brew potions with Senritsu’s help so that he had something to keep him safe during the grueling Covenant. He could talk to Zepile and pinpoint who exactly introduced the Eyes on the Black Market.

He could do this. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

Kurapika took another deep breath and schooled his rapidly beating heart and racing thoughts. If Senritsu could hear the change in his body, she didn’t comment.

“Then I’ll help you prepare for it within my limits,” the tiny woman decided and Kurapika almost smiled at seeing that she was as fixed on this as he was. “And when the time comes, I’ll personally escort you to the examination area for the first phase. You can do this, Kurapika. We all believe in you.”

Kurapika wished they didn’t. They would only succeed in fueling his bloodlust.

Joyful tears almost slipped down Kurapika’s cheeks, but he told himself this wasn’t the time or place to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know whether I should go into the details of how the Hunter Covenant went or not, but I know for a fact that it won't be next chapter. No, I'm determined to get us to Yorknew and Papi Chrollo ASAP.
> 
> Can y'all guess how Kurapika's magic works yet from the hints I've been dropping? Or am I being too vague? I think I'm doing something clever, but I'm probably failing miserably lmao


	5. Leviticus 19:31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrollo's evening is inconvenienced by a spoiled noble and her intriguing bodyguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, wow, hi, sorry it's taken me so long to update. My summer course has been hell to say the least. On the bright side, I finally got confirmation that I'll be back at work in 2 weeks. Downside? I'll have less time to update this, be at work and handle the Fall semester. However! Don't fret. My multitasking skills can be godly if I'm caffeinated enough.
> 
> On times where I do experience writer's block with this story, I'll try to compensate by posting oneshots for this fandom and/or this ship. I also got a seriously awesome idea for an ATLA/LoK fanfic that I may start writing soon if I can succesffuly get a chapter down. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me and I hope you all enjoy this chapter! The plot finally rises!

Chrollo observes with the slight upturn of his lips how _alive_ Yorknew feels with the seedy creatures of the underworld making way for the auction. He walks the evening market within the eye of Central Park where miscellaneous vendors have set up shop on lawns and on street corners soliciting goods. The practice is dubiously legal at best, as Yorknew’s formal auction tends to bring the otherwise too-busy city to life at the prospect of quick wealth.

Beside him walks Shalnark, Shizuku and Kortopi, the latter loosely gripping the hem of Chrollo’s long, black overcoat to keep up with the taller men and lone woman. The Spider Head doesn’t mind, sympathizing with how difficult it is for the petite Conjurer to move. Had it not been for Kortopi’s mastery of summoning copies, Chrollo would have never considered enlisting the child in his ranks.

“With the underground auction commencing only two nights from now, how would you like us to proceed until then, Danchou?” Shalnark asks, chipper as ever and far too eager to hear his leader’s plans.

“In the meantime, I expect you all to continue gathering intel regarding how the organizers intend to run the auction, assess how guarded the targets will be and anticipate casualties. Considering the severity of the heist, I highly doubt we won’t encounter hostiles.” Chrollo idly glances over at a vending station advertising antique books and makes a mental note to check it out before the end of the night. “I personally want you, Phinks and Feitan to keep an eye out for the Scarlet Eyes. I’m more than confident that we will find the thief who has stolen ten other sets.”

Shalnark hums quizzically at that, and Chrollo knows that he’s making several mental checklists for the auction heist, probably even taking extra time to analyze this thief outlier. The action makes Chrollo feel immensely grateful for the techie; when it comes to strategizing and garnering information, Shalnark is the Spider he can put his faith in.

“You don’t think he’ll try stealing the Eyes _here_ like how he has for the other pairs, do you Danchou?” Shizuku quips, her voice as baseless and airy as always.

“He won’t be so bold,” Chrollo answers. “Despite his best efforts, he knows that there’s no way he can face the mafia as well as several other families, bodyguards and mercenaries at once. Judging from his previous missions, I’d even be so intrepid to say that he’s still a novice witch, although his improvement is incredibly formidable.” _Startling_ is the word he really wants to say, but he can’t let Shalnark, Shizuku and Kortopi know just how threatening Chrollo finds the thief. The Spider Head licks his lips and continues. “It would be in his best interest to come to the auction with the intention to buy rather than to steal. We’ll allow him to bid on the Eyes. We’ll even let him take them. But I’ll know it’s him when the time comes.”

“Do you want us to kill him?” Shizuku questions, cocking her head to the side in vague interest. The motion makes her wide glasses slide down her small nose and she raises a dismissive hand to fix them before they fall off her face. “I certainly don’t mind, but wouldn’t that hold us up?”

“Nah, Shizu,” Shalnark answers for her with a knowing grin. “Danchou wants to recruit him. A thief that talented would be a good ally to have, even if all he cares about are some eyes.”

Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Chrollo thinks to himself, watching the sun set over the skyscrapers outlining the cityscape. They aren’t just “some eyes” to him, no. Chrollo still has yet to understand the significance of the Scarlet Eyes to the thief and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by the answer, but there were much more pressing things to worry about.

“He would be a valuable asset,” Chrollo amends easily and Shalnark practically _glows_ at his Danchou’s approval. Chrollo almost cringes at the sheer weight of Shalnark’s desire to please, but knows that getting him to stop is an impossible task. From what he’s learned from the blonde man over the course of his time serving the Ryodan, Shalnark only has three major personality traits: loving technology, loathing Uvogin with a passion that could rival a priest’s hatred for Satan, and bending backwards to Chrollo’s every whim. Which is not much information despite the years Shalnark has dedicated to the Spider and Chrollo makes a mental note to rectify that as soon as possible.

As the sun sets and the night sky rises over Yorknew, Chrollo is reminded that the underground auction will officially commence in less than 48 hours. The rest of his Spiders have prepared thoroughly for months. The risk for failure is very slim, but Chrollo, Shalnark and Paku have discussed at length various fail-safes. None of his Troupe should be caught. None of them should die. And yet…

And yet, the itch for a cigarette prods at the back of Chrollo’s mind and he’s quietly relieved that he left his pack in his hotel room.

The Spider Head almost wants to laugh at how troublesome the Scarlet Eye thief is, and they probably don't even realize it. The more Chrollo thinks about him, this mysterious, baby witch who has yet to be profiled on the Black Market, whose analytical skills seem to rival even his own, the more stress Chrollo feels. The more Chrollo wants this unknown criminal and his limitless potential serving the Ryodan.

Chrollo is promptly pushed back into reality at the sound of surprised yelp from Shizuku. He turns around to find the petite woman bracing a girl with long, blue hair in her arms, the strange hair color automatically giving away her status as a witch. Perhaps it’s a side effect of her magic or the result of a childhood spell gone wrong?

“Are you alright?” Chrollo asks the girl, knowing that Shizuku’s undergone far worse than a teenager tripping into her. He adopts the _concerned bystander_ persona like it’s second nature; after years of thievery, Chrollo has long learned that his handsome and relatively unassuming face makes people, especially women, feel safe in his presence. It’s easier to steal from someone who trusts you, after all.

The girl blinks rapidly, just as surprised as Shizuku by her moment of clumsiness and by Chrollo’s gentle worry. Chrollo takes the few seconds the teenager takes to pull herself together to appraise her; long-sleeved, eggplant-purple dress adorned by a pastel-green shawl, two-inch heels strapped around dainty ankles, hair tied up with a golden-yellow scarf dusted with subtle diamonds and trimmed with white gold. Wealthy then, Chrollo decides, and most likely a noble. But with the way she pants and the thin layer of sweat coating her forehead, she was obviously running from something or _someone_.

Then, without an ounce of shame, the teenage noble takes one look at Shizuku’s outfit and says, “Give me your clothes.”

“I’m sorry?” Shizuku questions, but her lack of visible confusion and discomfort throws Shalnark and Chrollo off balance. The Spider Head takes a chance glance down at Kortopi and finds the boy gripping Chrollo’s coat tighter, obviously as puzzled as the rest of them.

The young noble whines loudly and tugs at the sleeve to Shizuku’s black turtleneck with earnestness. “I need to hide,” she clarifies barely. “You can have my clothes!” she tries instead, although the suggestion sounds more like a thinly veiled afterthought the more she inspects Shizuku’s ensemble, large eyes staring at the woman’s chest more than socially acceptable. “I’m sure you’d prefer a cute, silk dress over that _boring_ sweater.”

This time, Shizuku has the audacity to look offended. “I _like_ this sweater,” she complains, hurt seeping into her words. “Your dress won’t even fit me. And that color is _hideous_.”

The teenager gasps obnoxiously loud and Shalnark quickly stifles laughter into his hand, his face reddening so fast that Chrollo’s almost certain he’ll faint. Below him, he can hear Kortopi moan a hushed, “ _What in the world is going on?_ ” and Chrollo can’t help but wonder the same as the noble and his eighth spider bicker at each other.

If Chrollo was a lesser man, if his patience wasn’t as resolute as it was after decades of agonizing bad luck and trying circumstances, he would have long killed this annoying blue-haired brat and every witness in the park.

“ _Who_ are you running from?” Chrollo asks instead, his phenomenal acting outweighing his irritation. This girl should thank her lucky stars that he is not a lesser man.

The young noble stops arguing with Shizuku and flat-out ignores her in favor of addressing Chrollo, his calmness and tact drawing her in. Chrollo can even see hints of a blush work its way into her cheeks and the Spider Head can only pray that she doesn’t up and declare that she wants him as her husband or servant or some other role befitting for a man as handsome and charming as him in her employ. She opens her mouth to say something, and Chrollo mentally prepares himself for the inevitable headache the gods decided that he’s meant to endure tonight when a sharp hiss of, “ _Lady Nostrade!_ ” shuts her down.

The teenage girl (now Lady Neon Nostrade, Chrollo notes with some astonishment, because _this_ is the sole heiress and famous fortune-teller of the notoriously wealthy Nostrade family?) groans loudly and turns to address the latest addition to this spontaneous clusterfuck. Marching up to their group is a slender person with a head of medium-length, golden-blonde hair and fierce brown, almost black eyes blazing with aggravation. At first glance, Chrollo can’t identify the gender of this person, but given the black, form-fitting suit clad on their rather effeminate body, the Spider Head can only guess that this is a young man who is not much older than Lady Nostrade.

“You _cannot_ just _run away_ whenever you feel like it. You have _no idea_ how worried we were and how could you think that leaving unannounced, with your _status_ , would be a good idea? Why— _why_ are you so _reckless_ ,” the young man rants, face red with barely contained rage, but then he abruptly stops and remembers himself by taking a deep breath and raking those silky locks out of his face with elegant fingers and _oh_ , Chrollo can’t help but think, _he’s gorgeous_. “Your father will not be pleased when he receives word of what happened tonight, My Lady.”

“No!” she screeches, the sound excruciating in Chrollo’s ears. Kortopi and Shalnark wince at the same time and Shizuku, who bore the worst of it with Lady Nostrade still clinging to her sweater, looks half-deaf and dazed. The blonde bodyguard only narrows his eyes at his charge as she continues her fussing. “If you tell him, he won’t let me participate in the auction! He’ll send me home, Kurapika! I don’t want to go home, please don’t tell him!”

The Nostrade heiress can’t be older than seventeen, Chrollo notes with distaste, hoping that it doesn’t show on his face. He watches the blonde idly, curious about what the young bodyguard will do. Chrollo can only feel the faintest hint of magic on the younger man, nothing so bold as to cause alarm or radiate a hostile aura, but enough for the Spider Head to guess that he’s fairly inexperienced or untalented. Still, his control over the situation at hand, his level-head against Neon’s juvenile fussing leaves Chrollo feeling impressed. The blonde, Kurapika, he thinks, mentally tasting the odd name on his tongue, seems to be more than accustomed to his charge’s tantrums. He patiently waits until Neon’s red in the face and needs to catch her breath before he speaks.

“We can discuss whether I inform your father of his particular incident if you allow me to take you back to the hotel _quietly_.” For the first time, Kurapika’s piercing eyes shift from the heiress to Chrollo and his Spiders. He looks each of them over with pursed lips and Chrollo stares right back at him, hands pocketed in his coat, staunch and unwavering and intrigued all at once. Kurapika meets his gaze head-on and they seem to share an understanding when the younger man’s shoulders slump apologetically. “And,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from Chrollo and facing Neon again, “you need to apologize to these people for inconveniencing their evening.”

Lady Nostrade (Chrollo can’t even associate this disaster of a noble with her title) shoots a foul glare in Kurapika’s direction and Chrollo thinks that she’ll complain about basic human decency and manners, too, but a deep sigh rolls from her nose and she nods, finally relaxing. “I owe you all an apology,” she says, shifting her eyes towards Shizuku and finally letting go of her. “Especially to you. I was incredibly rude to you and I’d like to make it up to you.”

Shizuku’s eyebrows raise, stunned by Lady Nostrade’s offer and sudden civility. “How would you do that?”

Lady Nostrade smiles widely, all teeth and mirth, and digs into the pocket of her dress, fishing out a pen and small notepad. “Allow me to read your fortune, free of charge,” she adds before wincing and risking a glance up at Kurapika whose hands are clutching his forearms with more force than necessary. “If we have time, of course.”

Chrollo can practically read every thought running through the blonde’s head: _no, we don’t have time, I need to get you back home, you have no idea who these people are, what if they’re a threat to you, your father will murder me if anything happens to you, why the fuck are you like this._ Chrollo’s chuckling into his hand and making it look like he coughed when the small bodyguard catches him staring again and narrows his eyes menacingly. Or, whatever he thinks menacing looks like. He has such a terrible poker face, it’s almost refreshing to the Spider Head.

Kurapika huffs and directs his attention back to his charge, nodding stiffly. It’s all the consent Neon needs before she’s squealing like a small child in a candy store and practically shoving the pen and paper in Shizuku’s arms. “Please, write down your name, full date of birth and your blood type. And, oh, we can do the telling over there!” Shizuku barely has time to question the energetic royal before her hand is snatched up once again and she’s being dragged over to a bench situated beside a quieter vending station selling antique knives. Chrollo makes another mental note to visit that particular stand when he sees the vendor flashing a Benz knife that shimmers with magical energy.

Kurapika reaches out in alarm and opens his mouth to stop Neon, to tell her that the reading can be done right where they’re standing, but Chrollo places a consoling hand on his shoulder before he has the chance. The pretty blonde flinches like he's burned and quickly shrugs the Spider Head’s hand off of him, shooting a devastating glare at Chrollo. The look reminds him of an alley cat ready to pounce. It’s absolutely adorable.

“It’s my understanding that such feats of magic require privacy. Fortunes can be very personal, sensitive,” Chrollo defends, but he does watch Neon and Shizuku out of her corner of his eye, without a doubt curious to witness the Nostrade Heiress in action. Her fortunes are popular among the Mafia and the Ten Dons for their striking accuracy. Chrollo can’t deny that there have been moments where her fortunes were used against them during heists when their targets that _should have been_ where they originally were suddenly replaced with fifty armed guards and mercenaries. Those specific jobs were nothing but awkward and humiliating. Chrollo’s jaw tightens a bit knowing now that one of the Troupe’s obstacles is some annoying, bratty noble.

“Or perhaps you just want to get her alone and do something morbid to her,” Kurapika grumbles, stuffing his hands deep into the back pockets of his slacks. “Or worse, observe her and gather information that you can use against the Nostrade family later.” Chrollo blinks a few times and peeks over at the bodyguard. Kurapika is looking at him pointedly and the Spider Head feels the corner of his lip pull into a smirk. For such a weak witch, the young man was exceptionally astute.

“I would not dare consider it,” Chrollo lies easily, finally allowing the full weight of his attention to be given to the blonde. “Kurapika, was it? What a unique name, I’ve had yet to encounter one like yours.” Once again, Chrollo lazily runs his eyes over the bodyguard’s lithe frame and his smirk widens when Kurapika suppresses a shiver. Cute.

“It’s not Common,” he replies, far too cautious. Chrollo wants to know what gave away him, Shalnark and Kortopi to warrant such wariness. Surely none of their actions thus far could be rightfully deemed suspicious. Just how in tune were Kurapika’s instincts? 

Shalnark perks up at Kurapika’s answer, interested in the younger man’s origins. “If you don’t mind me asking, what language does your name derive from? Names have power, you know.” The question seems innocent enough, even to a trained employee of the Nostrade Family. No one would be able to guess that Shalnark’s line of questioning has ill-intent aside from Chrollo and his Spiders.

“I mind,” Kurapika snaps instead of falling for the bait and Chrollo can’t help how stunned he is. It’s been a long time since someone was able to read the room as well as Kurapika. It’s been even longer since a complete stranger has looked at members of the Genei Ryodan in their plain-clothes, no criminal intent, no blood on their hands, and had their instincts immediately scream _distrust_.

There’s something different about Kurapika, Chrollo decides, and he finds himself being drawn in by this unexpected yet fascinating man.

Shalnark just laughs at Kurapika, excusing his rudeness. “I won’t worry about it then,” he says, his smile shining brighter than the sun. Kurapika winces at its power. “My name is Shalnark though, and this,” Shalnark gestures down at Kortopi who has made himself comfortable behind Chrollo’s legs, “is Kortopi. The woman Lady Nostrade is with is Shizuku.”

Caught off guard by Shalnark’s pleasantness, Kurapika finally allows himself to bow his head politely. “I apologize for my irresponsibility today with Lady Nostrade and I hope that her taking with you all has not disturbed your evening.” Shalnark’s face heats up at the _charm_ Kurapika inexplicably exudes, almost as if he’s a prince right out of a fucking fairy tale, and he’s babbling about it “not being a big deal” and that “the whole situation being actually amusing” and some other things that neither Kurapika nor Chrollo can safely discern.

Chrollo saves Shalnark the trouble of embarrassing himself further by placing a firm hand on his upper back. The tech-savvy witch shuts his mouth without any additional preamble, but the deep blush on his face does little to help him.

Lucky for him, Kurapika’s attention has diverted from them over to Neon and Shizuku, the former explaining the function and direction of her fortunes and the latter reading the notepad over with a blank look on her face. Chrollo can’t tell if it’s her regular expression or if her fortune ended up being more devastating than she expected.

“We should be leaving now,” Kurapika states, relief in his voice. He turns back to Chrollo, Shalnark and Kortopi and bows his head again. “Thank you for indulging her, Shalnark, Kortopi and…” Kurapika makes a face that’s a cross between surprise and unpleasantness that he never got around to asking Chrollo his name. For being such a rude person in his own right, Kurapika seems to balk at his accidental moments of offensiveness. “I,” the blonde starts, biting his lip when he eyes Chrollo, a sheepish blush rising on his cheeks and dusting across his nose and _wow_ , that’s an image Chrollo won’t be getting out of his head anytime soon, “I don’t seem… t-to know, your name?” That must have been painful, Chrollo jokes mentally, but bites his tongue to keep from saying it out loud and risk angering the quick-tempered bodyguard.

“It’s Chrollo,” he says instead, smiling politely with the easy tip of his head, “Chrollo Lucilfer.”

Kurapika screws his eyebrows together, shrewd. He opens his mouth to say something, hesitates and parses his lips, but then eyes Chrollo and quips, “That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s not Common,” the Spider Head answers Kurapika’s unspoken question with the easy tilt of his lips. He watches Kurapika’s eyes fall to his mouth and that blush on his face doesn’t seem to be due to self-consciousness anymore.

Without another word, the blonde turns on his heel and approaches his charge and Shizuku, not leaving Chrollo room to comment any further. Chrollo doesn’t follow him or call out to him. He merely watches as Kurapika bows deeply to Shizuku, likely mirroring what he told him, Shalnark and Kortopi. Shizuku, as expected, is confused by the royal treatment and doesn’t say a thing back. Lady Nostrade looks like she wants to whine and bitch a fit some more, maybe argue that she didn’t get to finish explaining the finer details of interpreting the fortune to Shizuku, but Kurapika steadfastly ignores her nonverbal complaints and eventually walks toward one of the park’s exits, Neon pouting and purposely situated in front of him as they go.

Chrollo’s still smiling as Shizuku comes back to their group and hopes that he encounters the interesting blonde again during the auction. He has a feeling that this will not be the last they see of each other.

“Shizu, lemme see what you got!” Shalnark exclaims childishly, peering over her shoulder at the notepad in her hands. Shizuku remains wordless as Shalnark skims the first page before a confusion blooms over his face.

“It’s a poem? All of this is metaphorical.”

“That’s what Lady Nostrade said it’d be,” Shizuku agrees, holding the notepad to Chrollo for his inspection. “She doesn’t check to see what she writes and judging from her magic, she has no idea what she puts on paper. I’m having trouble interpreting this, but I hope that what I’ve figured out on my own so far is wrong.”

“Why is that?” Chrollo asks, taking the pad from her and skimming the first stanza. Without needing to closely analyze it at first glance, he can tell that each quatrain represents a week in the month, making four in total and roughly twenty lines in all. He sees something about twelve moons, mourning, a requiem and “bloody Scarlet Eyes.” At the mention of the Eyes, cold dread seeps in Chrollo’s veins and he’s almost ripping the paper out of the notepad so he can flip back to the first page, but he’s not fast enough.

“It says I’m going to die next week,” Shizuku answers, and for the first time since Chrollo met her years ago, her flippant attitude disquiets him.

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) It's not like I hate Neon, she's just easy to talk shit about. Also, she's annoying asf, especially when she ran away from Melody and Basho to go to the auction knowing she could die like who tf does that??? And the fact that she collects human bodymparts like she's going thrifting, I-
> 
> (I promise I'm not jealous because she got to go on a date with Chrollo and basically live the dream before he knocked her ass out and stole her nen)
> 
> 2) The "pining" tag really jumped out in this chapter. But seriously, who wouldn't fall in love with Kurapika?
> 
> 3) It's interesting having Shizuku have her fortune read first in the presence of other Ryodan members rather than Chrollo having his read after Uvo's death. I chose this path because now Genei Ryodan members dying is off the table. Or not. Still deciding if I wanna kill people lol
> 
> 4) The dress Neon is wearing the chapter is her fit from The Last Mission, but I doctored it up a little bit so she looks less like she's homeless and more like a rich man's daughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Stan sassy Kurapika for clear skin.


End file.
